I Only Search for You
by LittleMender
Summary: In spite of the intoxicating assault on their senses, neither of them was willing or brave enough to take that step forward, so they stood stock still in silent, frustrating stalemate. Installment #8 in the Holiday/Next Time Series.


**The U.S. doesn't have a nationwide holiday in August, and I didn't want to wait two months for an installment. So, I turned to my good friend Cho, who let me borrow a bit of his heritage to celebrate Korean Liberation Day (August 15****th ****[1945]).**

**In my eyes  
><strong>**The saying that you're the only one I see…  
><strong>**That, I believe, is a lie  
><strong>**In my eyes  
><strong>**I see many people  
><strong>**But amidst this group of people  
><strong>**I only search for you  
><strong>**(Yi-Jeong Hanim, Korean poet)**

**Number 8 in the Holiday/Next Time Series**

I ONLY SEARCH FOR YOU

"Just bring them."

Cho winced at the clipped ending to the call and listened uncertainly to the dial tone for a moment before he snapped his phone shut and dropped it into his trouser pocket with a slump of defeat.

"Girl trouble?" Rigsby smirked from his desk.

Cho grunted, quirking one corner of his mouth into a grimace. "The worst."

His mother had always been . . . _imperious_, for lack of a better word. Actually, that was the perfect word. He had no doubt that she loved him, but her affection had always manifested in orders and imperatives. She and his father both. As an adult looking back, Cho was often amazed that two so iron-willed, stubborn people, both so certain they were always right about everything could have been attracted to one other, let alone made a decades-long marriage work. He knew there were two reasons for this. One, though it in itself was just as great a mystery, was that they always agreed on everything. The other, of which Cho was just as certain if not more so, was that they had been deeply in love. Cho's father had died in the hospital, succumbing to pneumonia shortly after the prodigal son had returned from his stint in the military several years ago. When he had driven his mother home that day, she had gone into what he privately called her "ma'am, yes ma'am" mode, planning, making arrangements and giving orders. Once they had returned to the house in which he grew up, he had followed her to her bedroom, trying to take in the litany of instructions she'd been barking at him since they'd left his father's bedside.

She had suddenly frozen at the threshold and stood for a moment, surveying the room, and all at once she seemed so small. Just as suddenly the instant had passed, and she embarked on a frenzy of cleaning that would have exhausted a professional service. "We go on," she had said. She shed not a single tear at the funeral.

And now she wanted to meet Cho's co-workers—"the people with whom you choose to spend so much of your time" as she described them with that particular tone that made his hair feel like it wasn't quite attached to his head. And she wasn't taking no for an answer.

Every year, she put on an elaborate feed for the family and neighbors and any lone Korean-Americans with whom she came into contact for the purpose of celebrating Korean Liberation Day. Every August 15th, rain or shine, no matter what day of the week, no matter the condition of her health—or anyone else's for that matter—their house was filled to bursting with people—aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, neighbors and near perfect strangers while his Nana Mee-Yon held court quietly for a select few upstairs. That had always been another point of confusion—how the tiny, gentle, now fragile woman, who had been coaxed from her family home just over thirty years ago after her husband died could have produced the force of nature that was his mother.

He smiled softly to himself thinking on the little woman that had comforted many tears and soothed many hurts for her little cheon-sa until long after he had stopped behaving like anything close to an angel. He would sit in the garden with her while she played her music, old recordings of American songs from the 1940's. She had some deep emotional connection to the music which he never questioned. Now, in his mind he could see her lying back, small and delicate, smiling secretly to herself, and he regretted that he allowed so much time to lapse between visits.

Suddenly he remembered his mother's earlier words, and he came back to his present situation with a jolt. Liberation Day. This year his mother wanted his colleagues there. And she would want to know everything she could find out about his work, his habits, his attitude, his personal life. At least Lisbon's near neurotic taboo against all things private in the workplace would keep disclosures of that nature to a minimum. And, his mother would have four new subjects to pick at. He shuddered at the thought. Everything Cho knew about interrogation techniques, he had learned from his mom.

Now all he had to do was get them to agree to come.

Van Pelt and Rigsby were easy. The promise of a new experience for the one and the assurance of plenty of food for the other was all it had taken. He knew Jane wouldn't be able to resist the opportunity to meet his family and do some intrusive digging of his own. The real challenge would be getting the boss to go along.

He had been watching her since she got in, hoping to catch her immediately after signing off on the small mountain of reports she'd found in her in-box that morning and had nearly jumped from his chair to head Jane off when he saw him making for her office. Instead he paused, wondering if the situation might not work to his advantage.

Cho wasn't blind, and he certainly wasn't stupid. He had been watching them for the past few months. He'd actually been watching them for several years—the ebb and flow, the give and take, the push and pull . . . the gasoline and match. It was always an entertaining dance, but since sometime around the beginning of the year it had become increasingly interesting, exponentially so, and seemingly only on special occasions. He was certain something had happened when Lisbon sent the team packing after the investigation into that state senator's murder on New Years' Eve. Jane had been adamant about them leaving him behind with the boss even though Cho knew Lisbon hadn't ordered it. It had happened again just last month with the Bonham case. Then there had been Lisbon's impressive St. Patrick's Day escape from the office quickly followed by a text to Jane that had sent the consultant scurrying after her with a grin like the Grand Canyon. And in April, the two of them walking away from the egg hunt, trading candy like playground sweethearts . . .

Something was definitely going on. He had pointed it out to his co-workers, but Van Pelt chalked it up to their quirky friendship, and Rigsby just wanted to bury his head in the office sand, preferably somewhere in the area of the now off-limits Van Pelt. Cho wasn't the coffee-klatch type, so he had given up trying to make the other two see what he saw. He wasn't even sure if Jane and Lisbon realized the intricate steps they performed, or if Jane would willingly admit to it. So, he kept his head down, his mouth shut and his eyes open.

For now, he had chosen to take a gamble and held his breath, waiting to see if it would pay off. Jane was leaning into her doorway, one hand on the frame and one foot raised behind him for balance with a dancer's grace. The key was always her first glance, the expression on her face when she first looked up at him . . .

_Smile. Tilt of the head in subtle invitation. Eyes roving up and down his form before she responded to whatever greeting he'd voiced._

Obviously sure of his welcome, Jane slid around the doorframe and into her office, picking up the thread of conversation, eyes intentionally averted. As he continued talking, he walked slowly along the side of the desk opposite her, the fingertips of his right hand smoothing along its top edge from corner to corner, Lisbon's eyes trailing after them. Jane turned to say something to her over his shoulder, his body subtly floating around the corner of her desk bringing him closer, to within steps of her side, and allowing him to face her directly. He leaned forward slightly, waiting. Only her eyes had followed his movements, her body still directed straight ahead, perpendicular to her desk. She lifted her gaze upward and sideways to his and replied, giving him an easy smile, drawn out and unwittingly sultry. Her eyes blinked slowly and dropped back to the form on which she had been writing, and her pen resumed its previous movement, though less hurried now. A slow, assessing grin spread across Jane's face before he strolled to the couch. Spinning around to face her once more, he jumped, lifting his legs horizontally, and landed supine on the sofa. He threw out his arms to loosen his jacket sleeves then brought them up behind his head, settling in.

Cho swallowed and cleared his throat.

Whatever good thing was going on, Jane certainly wasn't going to mess it up. But eventually, the consultant would want his tea. Half an hour later, Jane headed for the break room. Lisbon was primed, and Cho didn't want to miss his chance.

"Hey, Boss."

He leaned his muscular torso around the door frame, trying for nonchalance, consciously mirroring Jane's earlier entrance.

"Hey, Cho."

She didn't look up. _Busy_. But her voice floated across the room in that high, light sing-song. _Good mood_. He'd do something for Jane later to convey his unspoken thanks.

"My mom's having her annual Liberation Day celebration, August 15th, Monday evening, and she really wants you to come."

Lisbon's hand froze in mid-action, the page she was turning seeming to balance on its edge. Her eyes lifted to his, rounded in a mixture of alarm and confusion.

"Your mom . . . wants . . . _me_ to come?" Her voice was still high, still light, but now there was a distinct tremor.

"Yes—no—you—all of you—the team." So much for nonchalance.

He thought he'd already blown it, but when the boss visibly relaxed so completely, he wondered if he hadn't inadvertently done just the right thing. Maybe if she considered all things relatively . . . ?

"She wants to meet my colleagues." He hurried forward as the discomfort that would surely precede a "no" started to spread across her features. "Everyone else is coming."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and he knew she was considering the possibility that he had set her up.

"And yes, I set you up."

He hadn't worked with her all these years without learning a thing or two. It was almost always better to mount a straightforward assault disguised as honest confession than to beat around the bush or try to force anything, previous company excluded. Her facial features then screwed up into that expression of determined reasoning that he always thought made her look like a five year-old, or at least much younger than usual. If he hadn't read her personnel file long ago, he would really have no idea of her exact age.

"Everybody?" she asked uncertainly.

"Yes, Lisbon. Everybody."

Jane stepped around Cho and made his way back to the couch, throwing him a subtle wink just before he lowered himself, teacup in hand, to take his seat. Cho nearly winced at the implication of complicity, torn between gratitude and wondering what this would cost him.

"Van Pelt is always up for something new, and Rigsby's been assured there will be plenty of food. And _I_ wouldn't miss the opportunity for the _world_."

Jane's lips hovered over his tea for a moment, his gaze—a mix of cajoling, pleading and challenge—held Lisbon's questioning one, and Cho felt himself being drawn in, near spellbound by the mesmerizing tableau. He gave himself a slight shake and—just for an instant—was consumed with uncertainty over the whole thing. But when his eyes shifted back to take in Lisbon's expression, he knew there was no turning back.

"Well, if everybody else is going—"

"That's the team spirit, my dear. One for all, and all for Cho."

Jane raised his cup to his lips and winked again, and Cho took that as his cue to withdraw. A curt announcement to the others had Van Pelt wriggling in her chair in satisfaction and Rigsby glancing into Lisbon's office with a "How did you manage that?" Taking in the scene, he turned back to his computer with a sly grin. Cho had never dialed his mother's number with such relief.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Two hours in, and Cho was miserable. He could tell Lisbon was suspicious, but she had no good reason to shake him. He didn't dare leave her alone and unattended. Even when his mother had attempted to shoo him away for a private conversation with his boss, he had kept close enough to step in if needed. Thank goodness for Lisbon's honest near transparence. Their talk had not lasted long. His mother had learned all she needed to know of his superior in only a few minutes.

The venerable matron had then decided to grill Van Pelt and Rigsby in tandem, her suspicious gaze harpooning back and forth between them as she drew out answers to seemingly innocuous questions. He had recognized the precise moment she had gone in for the kill. The blushes on both agents' faces were confirmation as was their near immediate withdrawal to opposite corners of the house for the remainder of the evening. He would've felt badly, but Rigsby owed him for all of those heartfelt declarations he'd suffered through for the past three years. As for Van Pelt—she was still a little soft. His mom's style of party talk would be good for her. Even if he had wanted to bail them out, he couldn't risk abandoning his self- appointed detail. He glanced across the room from where he hovered at Lisbon's back to Elise and gave her a rueful half-hearted smile. She shrugged and laughed back at him.

"Great party, Cho!"

He felt himself wince as Jane's hand landed on his shoulder. He knew that tone. Jane, jacket shed in deference to the heat generated by so many energetic people in a confined space, had spent the last half hour talking to his mother. He had undoubtedly charmed her, gotten her secret recipe for chop chae and wormed the accounts of her son's most embarrassing childhood moments out of her. And he knew something was up.

"Is there some reason why you've been attached to Lisbon at the hip all evening instead of making time with the lovely Elise?"

Cho, disgusted with his own shortsightedness and helplessness, gave in without hesitation.

"You see Justin and Matt?"

"The brainiac twins? What's the problem?"

Cho's twin cousins, only a few years his junior, were geniuses. They'd started their own company a few years out of college and were already millionaires. His mother thought the world of them. For all their intelligence and business acumen, parts of their psyche hadn't matured beyond that of a hormonal seventeen year-old.

"I made the mistake of telling them about Lisbon a couple of years ago. They've wanted to meet her ever since."

Jane turned from the brainiacs to look back at Cho questioningly.

"I'm running interference."

Jane's mouth formed an understanding "o".

"I've tried to put them off. Said she was bad-tempered and aggressive. For some reason, mixed with 'lady cop', that translated into . . ." He was loathe to continue, looking for the right words to use without being inappropriate or disrespectful.

"Insatiable, leather-clad, stiletto-heeled dominatrix?"

Cho looked away from Jane and out into the room crowded with his family. He sighed through his nose.

"Yeah. And thanks for the visual."

Cho pursed his lips and continued to stare around the space, his eyes roaming back and forth. Jane couldn't help but laugh at him.

"You know, Boss Lady can take care of herself."

"My mom doesn't want bloodshed. She just had the carpets cleaned."

"Let me handle it. I'll stick with Lisbon. You go romance your girl."

Cho's eyes finally swiveled back to Jane's, searching for something that would assure him that the consultant would see to it that his errant and randy cousins didn't accost his quick-tempered boss and not desert at the first distraction.

"I'll handle it," Jane repeated solemnly. "Like glue. Promise."

Satisfied, and not a little curious about what steps Jane would employ in light of his ongoing observations, Cho nodded his thanks and moved across the room to where Elise was being held captive by his Auntie Mi-Sun. Upon reaching her, he laid his palm against the flat of her back and stroked up and down, taking as much comfort from the simple action as Elise seemed to receive.

Without thinking, Jane mirrored his actions. Lisbon turned from her conversation with Cho's mother's neighbor and looked up at him over her shoulder in surprise, her eyes then moving about the room.

"Where's Cho?"

"With Elise." Jane lifted his chin in the couple's direction.

"So you're on protective duty now?" When he looked at her quizzically, she practically snorted. "They've been eyeing me up since I got here. I'm assuming it has something to do with lady cop, gun, woman in charge. Every time they come close, Cho . . . gets bigger."

"Gets bigger?"

"You know. That thing men do. Tuck their chin so their neck gets thicker, shoulders get broader, everything flexes and their eyes do that thing that says 'Back off'. Half the people here are probably confused about who Cho's dating."

His eyes swept over her. They had come straight from work, and Lisbon had made certain modifications to her outfit. She was still wearing those skin-tight jeans she favored, but gone were the loafers, exchanged for flat bronze sandals with little strap things, and the serviceable jacket had been traded for a simple short-sleeved, scooped-neck black-green satin top that hugged her breasts then softly draped away to hitch at her hips. She certainly wasn't dressed for self-preservation. He wrenched his thoughts back to the conversation.

"Well, that's about to be undeniably cleared up."

At her "Huh?" he pointed into the kitchen. Through the throng of people and barrier of furniture, she could just barely make out a sliver of Elise's back pressed against the wall and Cho's hand moving up and down her side.

"Oh," she whispered before turning away to look directly at Justin's chest.

"Agent Lisbon! We've been looking forward to meeting you."

"Ever since Cho told us about you."

"We've been waiting for him to give someone else a chance."

"It's a bit loud in here. Won't you join us in the garden?"

Jane wondered if the brainiacs did everything together. He didn't allow himself to ponder it too long. Matt, who fancied the garden, was reaching for her elbow, and she was already leaning back into her heels. Justin's fingers, curved and grasping, were moving for the opposite arm. From his place behind her, Jane laid his own hands, palms down, on her shoulders then smoothed them down to curl his fingers around the inside of her elbows. He drew her back as he stepped forward slightly and tucked her into his right side, his right arm around her waist, his left hand stroking down her forearm.

"Exactly my thoughts. I was beginning to think Cho had forgotten who he came with. The garden sounds like a great idea. Thanks, boys."

Brushing past Dazed and Confused, Jane propelled Lisbon forward, through the garden door and out into the lantern-lit twilight. The sweltering California day had given way to the coolness of early evening, and Cho's mother's garden smelled of herbs and jasmine. The walk was made of worn pavers and crushed shells that crunched lightly underfoot, and Jane could hear the evidence of someone else's quiet celebration wafting on the light wind. A recording—it had to be an old shellac or vinyl—of Sinatra singing "It Had to Be You" played from somewhere nearby. The twins _were_ smart. It was the perfect setting for seduction, and Jane wondered idly why Cho was in the kitchen. The scents and sounds and the thoughts that accompanied them nearly overwhelmed him, and he realized he still had his arm around Lisbon, her skin warming the smooth fabric of her blouse under his hand. He left it there, testing.

Lisbon was very relieved to have escaped the twins without a scene, and she was so surprised and delighted by the atmosphere of the early evening garden that she didn't realize at first that Jane's hand, warm and a little possessive, still rested firmly at her waist, the thin material of her blouse seeming no barrier at all. She resisted the habitual urge to push away from him, but by the time they reached the garden's center—a low self-contained water garden—she felt the awkwardness begin to set in.

He could feel her starting to pull away from him, an emotional withdrawal if not yet actually physical. The recording ended, and he heard the faint zip and click of another taking its place on the turntable. He gave silent thanks to the listener when once more, Sinatra began crooning, this time "All the Way". He remembered the last time he had held Lisbon in his arms and the absolutely necessary resolutions he had made as a result of his own folly. But now—he didn't know if it was the moonlight, the music, or a madness he could attribute solely to the woman at his side—he made the very conscious decision to throw caution to the evening breeze. Stopping on the path, he curled his right arm, bringing her to him even as he stepped nearer to her, her blouse whispering against the front of his vest.

"Dance with me."

Her body seemed to respond of its own accord, and her eyes followed the path of her hands as they slid up his chest then rose to meet his gaze as her left hand curled around his right shoulder and her right trailed along his left arm to rest in his palm. Her head cradled against him, face turned away from his neck, and he lowered his head to breathe in the scent of her hair, the light spicy fragrance combining with the exotic florals around him. He curled his left arm tight against him to nestle their joined hands against his chest, and slowly, slowly they moved, rotating around their axis, revolving around the water garden, not a word spoken between them.

_When somebody loves you_  
><em>It's no good unless she loves you<em>  
><em>All the way<em>  
><em>Happy to be near you<em>  
><em>When you need someone to cheer you<em>  
><em>All the way<em>

_Taller than the tallest tree is_  
><em>That's how it's got to feel<em>  
><em>Deeper than the deep blue sea is<em>  
><em>That's how deep it goes if its real<em>

_When somebody needs you_  
><em>It's no good unless she needs you<em>  
><em>All the way<em>  
><em>Through the good or lean years<em>  
><em>And for all the in between years<em>  
><em>Come what may<em>

_Who knows where the road will lead us_  
><em>Only a fool would say<em>  
><em>But if you'll let me love you<em>  
><em>It's for sure I'm gonna love you<em>  
><em>All the way<em>

Neither of them knew when the music stopped, but they slowly became aware that they were still dancing to a rhythm that was felt rather than heard. Jane had been pulling Lisbon more tightly to him as the song played, and now he inched his hand further around her waist, drawing them so close together that they seemed to meld into one another, making movement impossible. Lisbon had turned until her forehead rested against the join of his neck and shoulder, and when he inhaled deeply and exhaled a shuddering breath, he was sure she broke some law of physics by leaning into him even further.

The night lay about them, still and concealing, forgiving darkness cool against their heated skin. In spite of the intoxicating assault on their senses, neither of them was willing or brave enough to take that step forward, so they stood stock still in silent, frustrating stalemate.

A few seconds passed. Then, as they did in almost all things, in perfect sync, each of them took the smallest step back, struggling to regain the control they had both come to know was necessary for mutual if lonely self-preservation. But simple desire is hard to renounce, and neither could bring themselves to completely release the other.

The zip and click and whir cut through the air, and the light-hearted lyrics of "You Make Me Feel So Young" came to their rescue. Jane smiled in acute relief and slowly raised Lisbon's hand back and over her head and never liked her more than when she yielded to the gesture—as well as the intention—and spun out away from him. She came back, though not so close, and they fell into an exaggerated two-step that morphed into a dance montage which included the foxtrot, a bit of ballet and a tango, ending when, on the final coda, Lisbon twirled Jane and cradled him in one arm, leveraging him back into a deep dip. They barely managed to hold the position for a full three beats, only stumbling when they tried to right themselves.

"Uh, . . . Boss?"

Rigsby stood, hands in his pockets for lack of something else to do with them, looking at the two of them like an eleven year-old who had accidentally walked in on his parents. Even in the moonlight his ears were visibly pink.

"Yes?"

Lisbon turned to him, laughter still curving her lips. To her credit, she didn't move out of Jane's partial embrace nor remove her hand from where it rested against his chest.

"Dispatch called Cho. Said they couldn't reach you."

_Poor Rigsby_, Jane thought.

"And . . .?" she queried as if one of Jane's arms still wasn't loosely wrapped around her.

He cleared his throat and mustered every ounce of the professional within him. "We've got a case."

It would have been more effective if his voice hadn't cracked on the word "case".

"Is everybody accounted for?"

"Yeah. Grace is waiting in the entry, and Cho went upstairs to say good-bye to his grandmother."

"Let's go."

Rigsby turned back toward the house, and Jane and Lisbon separated to follow after him. It was time, Lisbon knew, to return to the normal day-to-day of being themselves together that seemed to remain curiously untouched by these moments, these "next times" that had come to be more and more alarmingly normal and _desirable_ to her. She wondered with a hint of useless regret if her imagination would do justice to the memory of the moment that was now past. At that instant, as they stepped through the doors back into the house, Jane's hand lighted at her neck then trailed down to the small of her back in a gesture she was certain could have only been meant to thwart Justin and Matt's last attempt to catch her attention. She couldn't help but smile at the small, final thrill, this last gift given to her by the evening.

They said their good-byes and thank-yous to their hostess who seemed to smile a blessing on all of them, pleased that her son had followed her wishes and she had seen for herself the people in whose hands his safety and reputation rested. Grace and Wayne exited out the front door, followed by Jane and Lisbon and eventually, Cho and Elise. Jane understood when Lisbon elected to ride back to the office with Van Pelt and Rigsby and didn't quite mind the feeling of loneliness that assailed him just walking to his car by himself.

He had rounded the corner to where he had parked at the side of the house outside the garden wall when he heard Cho call from behind him.

"Hey! Jane!"

He turned and stood in place, waiting for Cho to catch up.

"Did you go upstairs? Talk to Na—my grandmother?"

Jane shook his head slowly, confused at the question. Rudeness in a murder investigation was often necessary and most times amusing, but Jane would never have been so presumptuous as to invade Cho's grandmother's privacy. Cho seemed to be just as confused as Jane.

"Well . . . she asked me to give you this."

Jane looked down at the large brown paper square and reached out to take it from the agent's grasp more as a matter of form than understanding.

"See you back at the office." Cho turned and jogged back to where Elise waited for him at his car.

Jane reached into the open end of what proved to be a paper jacket and pulled out the record—an old 78 of "All the Way". His eyes lifted to the second story of the house, and he saw her in the center window, silhouetted against the soft pink glow of the lamplight in her room. He gestured up at her in a tentative wave of thanks, and she in turn lifted one small, delicate hand, rotating her wrist in a circular motion then unfurling her fingers gracefully. He didn't know specifically what the gesture meant, but he thought it was all right if he interpreted in his own way.

_For next time._

**END**

**I don't know why I have this thing about Jane and Lisbon dancing to old music. It must be because I see Jane very much as a beautiful throwback to Cary Grant, Gene Kelly, Robert Taylor and all of those other lovely men in movies who knew how to take a lady's hand and give her the world and Lisbon as a tender-hearted but hurt-wearied woman completely unprepared for the romance and sentiment such a man would use to sweep her off of her feet.**

**The next U.S. holiday is Labor Day, but that seemed rather dry. So, I decided to once again go with something not found on our official calendar and let their "next time" unfold at the Fall Solstice (September 23****rd****). I thought it rife with possibilities. Thanks so much to all who read and review and encourage.**


End file.
